A Normal {for us} Christmas

I have one point of comparison--my own--to judge a right and good Christmas. 

It always involves a candlelight service on Christmas Eve and then a long night's stretch to find the loot I've accumulated for months in all my best hiding places.  After that, we assemble, assemble, assemble until the wee morning hours (2:30am this particular year).  

I don't know if it was the glass of wine or the extreme fatigue, but I was downright giddy when I fell into bed.

Moreover, despite my good intentions, I'm resigned to the fact that every year there will be a certain toy/candy/clothing that I find in the dark recesses of my closet 'roundabout March that shall remain ungifted.

So what makes a normal Christmas?  ("Normal? What does anyone in this family know about normal? We act normal, Mom! I want to BE normal!" -my girl Violet in the Incredibles) 

This beleaguered tree and the subsequent photos tell a lot about our current "normal" and how it played out this holiday season.

For instance, for their own protection, no gifts nestled there until after bedtime on the evening of December 24.  As we approached the holiday, there were a paltry amount of unbreakable ornaments hung from 40 inches down (Josh's wingspan), with the netting and ribbon ripped off and hastily put back on multiple times.  The mid-tier is occupied by homemade baubles while the upper reaches, untouchable except to the well-placed football spiral, play home to my irreplaceable Baccarat and Waterford ornaments.



"Normal" involves gifting a six-year-old with a long history of abrasions and accidents, who is on a first-name basis with the TMH stitches tech, with his very own pack of fireworks. 

(Oh yeah.)

"Normal" involves me reading this card as fra-jeely, thanks to too many late Eves with The Christmas Story blaring in the background as we assembled toys guided solely by a glass of wine and byzantine Chinese directions. 

"Normal" includes Mr. Moneybags (aka Collin) springing for everyone a gift from the WDW souvenir shop at Epcot, perhaps the most overpriced shopping venue on the planet.

"Normal" encompasses me giving my fra-jeely item from said gift shop to a two year old so that he'll stop fussing.

The person who worked so crazy hard to pay for the gifts?  Him getting his stocking down last? Well, I suppose, right or wrong, that is our current "normal."

Oh, and it is particularly "normal" for me to percolate Big Plans to stretch my meager cooking skills by making homemade cinnamon rolls, only to discover no baking powder in the cupboard come late night Dec 24.  Even Walmart was closed at this juncture.  After a crazy vinegar/baking soda substitution, I can only embrace this flukey Christmas morn deliciousness as the new norm.  



One absolute "normal" mainstay of Christmas is balls.  Not the pretty, fra-jeely, sparkling kind, but the synthetic rubber sort that can be kicked/hit/thrown to death until they lie deflated and moldy and hidden in a bushy area of our yard (only to be replaced by the ball fairies the next Christmas).

As the day wound down and we were stuffed silly with candy, candy canes, candy corns, and syrup, it only seemed "normal" to take a long walk with Kate Middleton in the woods.

And then to stop

and play games under the strangely creative and unpredictable direction of Dad-- "normal" games that, in a still frame of the camera lens, might seem rather odd.

Take it from the Head Elf---it was pretty darn funny.

Thirty seconds to spell out a word as a team?  Unfortunately our "normal" canine audience-of-one has very poor spelling skills and couldn't figure out any of the words.  However, she very much enjoys loud antics involving lots of laughing/snorting/other bodily noises from her littermates.

Christmas day ended with a seemingly "normal" moment as Mom's headline gift was run up the grand ole flagpole.  Texans will be Texans till the day they die, after all.  This normally somber and patriotic moment was made more jolly

by a dancing band of elves doing a cowboy jig and hollering yeehaws while eeking out a broken rendition of "The Eyes of Texas are Upon You" as best as these Florida-born buckaroos could.  

Hope you and yours had a very "normal" Christmas, too!

Declarations in July

One thing I dearly love about Monticello is the relentlessness with which Thomas Jefferson pursued knowledge.  Visitors cannot help but feel this burning pursuit in the design of his home, his broadly curated collections, the forward-thinking gadgets he invented for each room, and the careful preservation and experimentation he conducted involving seeds and plants in his gardens.

I've toured Monticello enough to have a favorite feature:  the crafty method Jefferson employed to magnify the limited sunlight provided to his electricity-free dwelling by placing large mirrors in direct opposition to windows and even painting his dining room an 18-century equivalent of safety yellow.

Florescent paint plus unrefrigerated vittles and homemade moonshine--well, that particular combo sums up patriot courage, folks.

The most impressive sight is his personal room, which includes an odd niche bed and rows upon rows of leather bound books. Ahhh, they are quite magnificent.  He read in seven languages and occupied himself with every range and substantial topic imaginable.

"A mind always employed is always happy,"  he was known to say.

Upon consideration of Jefferson's July 4th claim to fame, The Declaration of Independence, plus my fifth (yes, fifth.  I basically lugged five infants and/or my pregnant self through this place. Mercifully the policy is "age two and under are free.") visit to Monticello has inspired four personal July resolutions, or "declarations," if you will:

• Declaration #1:  I pledge to be more curious about the world.  I might not organize heirloom seed collections, but I promise to purchase other flavors of Goldfish than cheddar cheese, plunge my bare hands into murky pool skimmer baskets without hesitation, and actually examine the frog species presented to me before screaming.

• Declaration #2:  I will arrange and re-arrange my home with an eye for function above all, yet still with the goal of beauty.  This declaration is not limited to preserving years of personal collecting by tethering up the towering Christmas tree with clear fishing line anchored to wall studs.  Why such lengths?  Only what's necessary to prevent middle-of-the-night collapses from all manner of sports balls that batter my favorite decorations.  (You know, those irreplaceable Baccarat ones dating to 1984.)

• Declaration #3:  I will surround myself with books that I've held off reading because of the wee ones in hopes that I can catch a page or two each day.  "I cannot live without books," TJ would high-handedly tell you.  Currently stacked on my nightstand are Sacred Rhythms by Ruth Haley Barton, Wordsmithy by Douglas Wilson, and One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish by the slightly-creepy Dr. Seuss.  I also am kicking around the idea of reading everything assigned to my seventh grader this year, who will be entering an Omnibus class on early medieval literature.  Hey, Jefferson would be proud!

• Declaration #4:  I will go to great personal sacrifice for my flowers to bloom beautifully.  That is, I promise to stand in fifty percent humidity under the sweltering Southern sun to water my pots, whisky barrels, and urns containing blooms from Home Depot that the salesperson may or may not have begged me not to buy.  I pledge a sister commitment to not disclose to even my husband when those browned, arid flower stalks are thrown in the trash bin and replaced by their fresh, dewy-faced twins. (Shhhhh.)

Goodbye for this year, Monticello. Thanks for your annual inspiration, and I'll catch you again when I'm twelve months older, much less gray, ten pounds lighter, have conquered new intellectual challenges and can claim to be significantly more well-read.....

~ ~ ~ 

 *All photo creds to Madeleine Roberts.  Alas, I was too busy chasing down a dropped binky, searching for a missing green Croc, and lugging around a fussy toddler to do much thoughtful photography.  

My most sincere apologies to anyone visiting on the 4:10pm tour that day.

Postcards from Summer